


Ballabloobish 12

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020, SherlollyWeek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23050672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Sherlock and Molly, fighting the elements.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 20
Kudos: 93





	Ballabloobish 12

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and Molly get caught in a blizzard.  
> -Trapped in a tiny cabin!  
> -There’s only one bed!  
> -Huddling together for warmth!
> 
> (Basically, smut in a snowstorm.)

With a moan, Sherlock slowly regained consciousness. “Wha—what happened?” he mumbled, blinking. “What’s going on?” His hand went to his forehead, and she pushed it away.

“We skidded off the road,” Molly answered. “Hold still. You bashed your head on the steering wheel.” She was holding a chunk of snow to his temple. “You’ve been unconscious for…” she checked her watch, “…four of the longest minutes of my life. I thought you were dead.” 

“Ha! I’m indestructible,” he said, dismissively, even though he felt disorientated and shaky.

She rolled her eyes, took the end of her woolen scarf, and wiped away the blood slowly trickling from the gash in his forehead. “Dammit, head wounds bleed too much,” she muttered. “This needs steri-strips.”

“Why are we on this weird angle?”

“We’re facing downhill, Sherlock,” she answered. “We went down off the road and we’re stuck on the embankment, pointed at the loch. My side of the car is wedged against a rock; I can’t open the door. We’re lucky we didn’t slide right into the water — that ice doesn’t look very thick. How are you feeling?”

“Bit…dizzy,” he responded. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. “Jesus, look at the snow!”

“I know,” she said, grimly. “There must be almost 20 centimeters out there. We’re in trouble, Sherlock.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, in a low voice, turning his head to look at her. The concern in his eyes and his gentle tone made her stomach tighten. She nodded. “Why aren’t you injured?” he went on. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re not, but…” he trailed off and rubbed his eyes, the shattering pain in his head making him unable to finish the sentence.

“Unlike some people,” she responded, “I was wearing my seat belt.”

“Oh. Right,” he said. “I remember. I’d taken mine off to try to scrape the ice off the windscreen.”

“Perhaps hanging out of a car in a blinding snowstorm stabbing ineffectually at the windscreen with a short scraper whilst you’re driving isn’t such a great idea,” she commented.

He grimaced. The chill in her voice matched the freezing temperature outside. “Okay, my bad,” he admitted. “I’ve had better notions, I admit it. Where do you think we are?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“In the middle of absolutely nowhere,” she sighed. “We’re somewhere between Kinlochmore and North Ballachulish, on the edge of Loch Leven, Sherlock. There’s no mobile service. I already checked.”

“Right,” he said, looking out the window and thinking. “Twelve kilometers to the nearest village, or thereabouts.”

“How do you know that when you don’t know where we are?” she asked, suspiciously.

“There’s a road sign,” he said, pointing. “Right there. Ballabloobish, 12. Granted, the sign’s mostly covered with snow, but it’s still readable.”

“Ballachulish,” she corrected.

“Whatever. Do you want to try to walk it?”

“Not really,” she said, with an uncertain shake of her head. “We could get lost very easily and freeze to death.”

“Or we could stay here and freeze to death,” he countered. “Not a very appealing choice.” He put his hand to his head and groaned. “Christ, this hurts. My head is splitting.”

She pulled his hand away. “Don’t mess with it,” she instructed. “I’ve just gotten it to stop bleeding. Let me look at your pupils.” He turned his head towards her and she peered at them carefully. “Well, one is a bit larger than the other. I think you have a concussion, Sherlock. Maybe whiplash, too. We came to a pretty rough stop. Are you confused at all?”

“Perpetually,” he answered, dryly.

“Don’t joke about it!” she snapped. 

“Well, how am I supposed to answer that? Look, I know who I am, I know we’re near Ben Nevis in Scotland on a stupid, boring, poisoning case that didn’t pan out, and I know it’s snowing like a bitch. The only thing I don’t know is who you are,” he laughed. “Seriously, Molly, I’ve never seen you before. Are you my wife or my lover?” She blushed. “Have I died and entered the ninth circle of hell? It’s certainly cold enough. Are you Satan, here to welcome me to the _Inferno?_ ”

“Stop it!” she said, punching his shoulder lightly. “I will be Satan in a nanosecond if you don’t stop joking around. This isn’t funny — you took a serious crack to the head and we’re stranded in a blizzard. You need to let me know immediately if you start to feel confused or nauseous, and we need to figure out what to do about our…predicament.”

“All right,” he agreed, properly chastised. “Sorry.” He tried starting the engine. It turned over, but when he put it in reverse the wheels just spun in the drifts surrounding their car. “We’re not going to drive out of this,” he said, turning the ignition off. “Even if we could move forward, which we can’t because of the rock I brilliantly steered us into to keep us from crashing into the loch, you’re right — the ice is too thin. We need a breakdown truck with a winch. If we walk and stick to the road we’ll have a chance, I think.”

“Maybe someone will drive by and find us,” she offered, hopefully, still not thrilled with the walking idea.

He checked their angle in relation to the road and shook his head. “We’re below the road, and this heavy snow is already covering our tracks. No one can see us even if someone were to drive by, which is statistically unlikely on this lonely stretch and in this weather. It’s either stay here or try to walk it, Molly.”

She bit her lip, thinking. “How long might it take to walk?”

“That distance, normally, about two hours, or a little less. With this weather, probably closer to three. Maybe more.”

“You don’t have a hat,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but I have this fur collar. I’ll turn it up. It’ll be okay,” he said.

“And if we stay here and run the engine to keep warm, how long do we have?”

He bobbed his head back and forth, thinking. “Maybe three, four hours. We didn’t have much petrol in the first place. Plus, we’d have to crack the windows to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning, so it’d still be cold.”

“All right,” she agreed, reluctantly. “There’s no point sitting here freezing, waiting for death. Let’s walk.”

“Molly, you’re a brick,” he said, in admiration. “Let’s check the car to see if there’s anything else we can take with us.”

“Okay,” she nodded. Pushing his door open against the drift that had built up on the driver’s side of the car, he got out, reached in, and helped her climb over the gearbox and out of the car.

Five minutes later, a thorough inspection of the glove box, the back seat, and the boot had yielded two woolen blankets, an extra pair of thick woolen mittens, a precious lighter, a first aid kit and a bunch of other random stuff that might come in handy which Sherlock squirreled away in his coat pockets. Molly dug through the first aid kit, found some steri-strips, and made him stand still whilst she applied a few to the cut in his forehead. Then he draped one blanket around her, one over his head, and insisted she put on the mittens over her gloves. 

Holding hands, they helped each other crawl up the embankment through the deep drifts to the road. No sooner had they gotten started when a furious, chilly gust blew a glob of wet snow right into her face, taking her breath away. “Ack!” she said, turning around to try to get away from the wind.

He moved around to her windward side, trying to block the worst of the storm from hitting her and taking it upon himself instead. In places, drifts covered the road as they went along, and he went first, breaking through the deep snow in order to make her path easier. They struggled on for thirty minutes, slipping and sliding on the icy road, before stopping for a break. Huddling together, panting with the exertion, they put their arms around each other in the middle of the road, trying to block the wind with the blankets. 

“I’m concerned about your coat!” she yelled over the wind. “It’s not very thick!”

“It’s got a liner,” he yelled back, shaking with the cold. “It’s not too bad.”

She turned up the fur collar even further so it covered him better and looked him up and down. “Sherlock, where are your boots?”

“Didn’t bring them,” he shrugged. It didn’t matter, he thought, because he couldn’t feel his feet anymore anyway. “I’m more concerned about you,” he said, sliding his arms tightly around her and pulling her close. He could feel her slender body quaking. “You’re so small. The wind must be cutting through you.”

“Christ, Sherlock!” she shouted. “We’re in the Scottish Highlands in January and you didn’t bring any winter gear? What kind of an idiot are you?”

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said, looking contrite. “I didn’t exactly foresee this. Don’t yell at me, please. You’re wasting your energy and you need it for walking.”

“I’m just so worried about you!” she said, turning her face up to his.

“And I’m worried about you,” he responded. “Let’s not do this right now. You can yell at me later, when you’re safe, okay? All you like.”

She nodded and they started walking. He put his arm around her for support, and she leaned heavily against him as they inched along, their progress slower than he’d hoped. Forty minutes later they paused again. There was no sign of the storm abating, and she was pale, shivering, and breathless. “God, Sherlock, I’m not sure this was a good idea,” she said. “I don’t know how much more I can do. It’s like fucking Siberia out here! I feel like Dr. Zhivago!”

“Doctor who?”

“It’s a film, Sherlock. He was walking in the snow in Russia for what seemed like years and…never mind.” She didn’t have the strength to go into it.

“Just a bit further, Molly,” he assured her. “You can do it. We’re halfway there, I’m sure of it.” He tried to sound confident, but he was increasingly worried about her and unsure of their chances for success. The winter wind off the loch was ferocious, and she was already starting to stumble from sheer exhaustion. He wasn’t sure she’d be able to continue on much farther. 

To top it all off his head was splitting, and his dizziness was increasing in the whirling, blinding snow. He’d staggered and almost fallen more than once. He didn’t want to pass out here, right on the road because that would mean certain death, but the urge to just sit down and let the cold and the snow take him was nearly overpowering. He could only imagine how worn out she was. He put his arm around her waist again as they struggled along together.

They continued on for another half an hour until he spotted a dark, rectangular shape on the side of the hill away from the loch, nearly obscured by the swiftly falling snow. “Look, Molly, up there!” He pointed. “Is that a cabin?”

She peered up the side of the hill. It was, indeed, a small building of some type, about 400 meters away, up the steep side of the mountain. “Yes! Oh, god, thank you!” 

They climbed, slipping and sliding, up the snow covered terrain to the building, him pulling her along until it was just easier to pick her up and make the last hundred meters with her in his arms. 

It was a small cabin, a shack, really, probably used for trout or pike fishing out of the loch in better weather. With the last of his strength, his vision fading, he forced the door open and she collapsed inside on the floor. He pushed the door shut and fell down alongside her. 

She lay there, panting, for a good ten minutes, trying to regain her strength. She was the first to recover and sit up. “Oh, thank god!” she sighed, relieved to be out of the howling wind. “Sherlock?” She turned to look at him. He appeared to be unconscious. “God, no,” she cried, shaking him. “Wake up! Wake up, please, Sherlock!” Feeling her stomach wrenching, she lightly slapped his cheek, willing him to be conscious. “Wake up! You can’t go to sleep with a head injury!”

Drawing a deep breath, he struggled awake, coughing and groaning. “I’m all right, Molly,” he managed. “Just…sort of…tired. Are you okay?” His lips were blue, his eyes glazing over, and she started to panic. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t go to sleep. Breathe deeply. Get some oxygen flowing. Fight to stay awake.” He nodded and put a hand to his head, grunting, as she looked around. 

The room was small, about three square meters, with a wood-fired pot-bellied stove in one corner, a couple of broken down wood crates, a few split logs, the saggiest, nastiest looking metal cot she had ever seen, a tiny window that let in a small amount of light, and a little cabinet shelf along one wall. A number of long gaps in the thin wood walls groaned and whistled in the wind, letting the cold in. Rustic didn’t even begin to describe the level of this cabin, she thought, with a grimace. Still, it was saving their lives, so I ought to be grateful, she reminded herself.

She checked him over. He was trying to stay alert, but his colouring was ashen and he coughed, weakly. She was suddenly filled with remorse for having yelled at him out on the road when, with a head injury, he had exhausted himself protecting her from the worst of the wind and snow. She had to get him out of that coat, she realized, it was soaked through and there was still a risk of hypothermia. It took her a few minutes to tug his sodden coat off his semi-conscious form. She covered him with the driest side of both blankets, feeling terrible about leaving him on the hard wood floor.

“Okay,” she said, removing her own wet coat. “First things first. I can make a fire.” She opened the side grate to the stove, crumpled up some old newspaper, took bits of a crate for kindling, and started laying a fire inside the stove. Taking the lighter in her shaking hands, she touched it to the paper and breathed a prayer, watching as the golden curl of flame wrapped around the paper and sent forth a promising stream of thin, gray smoke. Soon enough, the dry kindling caught and she added two of the smaller split logs before — satisfied it would catch — she turned her attention back to him. He was hovering on the edge of sleep, but his breathing was stronger, so she let him be for a few minutes.

She stood up and went to examine the cot. “Smells like rodents in here,” she commented, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh, this is disgusting!” she exclaimed. Pulling the coverlet off the bed, she saw it was torn and rotten, unusable, filled with mouse droppings, holes, and bits of chewed fluff. She shoved it under the cot. The small mattress wasn’t so bad, once she’d turned it over. It was stained and thin, but it would do. 

She pulled the mattress closer to him, closer to the stove, angling it to catch as much heat as possible. “Sherlock, we’ve got to get you on this mattress,” she said. 

“Okay, Molly,” he agreed. He seemed weak and a little shaky. She pushed and tugged at him until he was on the mattress. Removing his shoes, she covered him again with the blankets and checked the fire. It had caught and the logs were aflame, however its efficacy was hampered by the gaps in the walls. Still, she could already feel the difference in the room temperature. Thin wisps of steam started rising from his blankets, which was a good sign. For the first time since this whole thing started, she began to think they might not actually die.

She counted the number of logs. Only nine. “We’re going to have to ration this wood,” she noted. It occurred to her there might be more outside and she groaned, not wanting to brave the weather again. But it would mean the difference between slim comfort and possibly freezing to death, so she put her coat and boots back on and pulled the door open. 

Stepping outside and shutting the door, the cold wind slapped her right in the face and she staggered, gasping for breath. Slipping in the deep drifts that had built up around the cabin, she found a stash of cordwood around the leeward side of the shack. It was covered with hardpacked snow, and she had to dig through that with her hands to pry the wood free. She made several trips, stacking the logs near the stove so they would begin to dry out and leaving the grate open for the light. By the time she finished it was growing dark. Once she stocked enough wood to last the night she took off her coat, stuffed it into the largest gap in the wall to block the wind, partially filled another gap with her mittens and scarf, and went to inspect the hutch.

To her delight and surprise there were a few tinned soups, some stale biscuits and tea, as well as a bottle of whiskey, which she immediately opened. She tossed back a shot and let out a satisfied sigh. On one of the shelves she found a couple of saucepans. She took one, filled it with snow, and opened a tin of soup into the other, placing both of them on the stove to heat up, before turning her attention back to Sherlock.

“I’m okay, Molly,” he insisted, rousing himself, sitting up as she ran her hand over his forehead. She gave him some of the whiskey. Now that he was no longer fighting the storm, his energy was starting to recover. He patted the mattress and she sat down. Side by side they sat on the thin mattress, silently stared at the fire crackling in the grate for a long time, each reviewing their situation in their minds. They passed the alcohol back and forth until a whiskey glow began to infuse them both. He reached over and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You were amazing today,” he said, warmly. 

“Thank you,” she acknowledged, shivering. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. How’s your head?”

“It’s better,” he replied. They sank into silence again.

After a while she got up, fetching the pans from the stove, and made him drink some water. She gave him a couple of paracetamol she’d found in the first aid kit. This was followed by some of the soup for both of them, and another precious log went into the stove. “I wish we had some different clothes for you to change into,” she mused, looking him over. “These are still wet.”

“So are yours,” he said. 

“Are you feeling warmer?” she asked, taking his hand. He seemed a little clammy. “I think we should get you out of these clothes. You’ll warm up faster.”

“All right,” he responded. He stood up, peeled off all his clothes, then laid down again, on his side under the blankets. “Your turn,” he said, winking, propping his head on his hand, boldly watching her. 

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Entirely…naked?”

“Everyone’s got parts, Molly,” he said, with a shrug.

Biting her lip, slightly embarrassed, she stripped down to her bra and knickers, trying to preserve a bit of modesty. She crawled under the blankets and fitted herself a little stiffly along his toned, firm, body. They spooned together, her on the inside, with his arm wrapped around her waist. 

“I’m so cold, Sherlock,” she said, trembling. “It’s in my bones. I don’t think I’m ever going to be warm again.”

He scooched, closing the gap between them. “Tuck into me, Molly,” he instructed. “We’ll share body heat. You’ll warm up in a few minutes.” He rubbed her arms to get her circulation flowing, and wondered if he should rub her legs, too, unsure of protocol in this type of situation. He decided against it, not wanting to alarm her, even though her nearness was…unsettling. Something unidentifiable, something unfamiliar, rustled in his abdomen. He suddenly wanted to be closer to her.

“Gee, this mattress is a little…uh, small,” she ventured.

“Such a shame,” he breathed, pulling her nearer.

“If we ration the wood, we have enough to last a day or so,” she nervously blurted out, trying to work through their problem. “By that time the storm will have stopped, your head will be better, and we can walk the rest of the way into the village.”

“Good plan,” he said, burying his face in her hair. He began to absentmindedly trace little circles over her stomach with his fingers. “We just need to figure out additional ways of keeping warm,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in her ear.

“Erm, yes. Are you feeling okay?” she asked. “You’re acting…kind of strange.”

“Head injury,” he rationalized. “And someone has just given me quite a lot of whiskey. But yes, to answer your question, I’m absolutely fine. I was just…kind of…well, I admit it,” he said. “I was done in. You saved my life. Again.” He snuggled into her. “You’re not Satan, Molly,” he murmured in her ear, “you’re an angel.”

“Satan was an angel,” she responded, flatly. “Before he fell.”

“I’m trying to pay you a compliment,” he sighed. “Just…let me, okay?”

There was a small silence before she shrugged. She was suddenly bone weary, near tears, the events of the day crowding in on her, and, fueled by the whiskey, she realized she was about to start saying things perhaps she oughtn’t. “All right. Although you’re not usually this…generous with your language. Always on me about my boyfriends, or my choice in clothing, or my physical defects, or something.”

“Then I’m an idiot,” he said, propping himself up on one arm and pushing on her shoulder. “Molly, look at me.” She turned over onto her back and met his gaze, amazed to find his soft blue eyes filled with tenderness. He cupped the side of her head in his hand, running his thumb along her cheekbone. “I think you’re perfect. You’re wonderful. I’d be dead a hundred times over if not for you.”

“Clearly, that’s your brain damage speaking,” she responded. “I thought my mouth was too small, my breasts are inadequate, I date criminal masterminds, you only tolerate me because I’m useful to you, and my…my crush on you feeds your ego.”

“Do you remember every stupid thing I ever said or did?”

She nodded and turned her head away, her eyes filling with tears, too exhausted to stop them.

“Well, stop it,” he said, laying back down on his side and putting his arm around her waist again. He gave her a little hug. “I’d do anything for you, Molly. Don’t you know that?”

She shook her head and bit her lip. “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t know that.”

“You’re smart, brave, kind, and beautiful. You’re more than a…utility to me. I couldn’t live without you. I wouldn’t want to.”

She turned her head back and stared at him, astonished. “Really? You’re not just saying that because we almost froze to death? Or because your brain is not working properly?”

“Yes, really, Molly. You’re as much a part of me as…my own blood cells. And if we get stuck here for weeks, you can kill me, roast me, and eat me if you need to,” he said, earnestly. “That’s how much I think of you.”

She laughed through her tears before brushing them away. “Thank you for the honor. But I think we’ll be out of firewood by then. And Holmes tartare is way too spicy for me.” Flipping onto her side, facing him, she reached over and slid her hand along his shoulder. “I prefer a more tender cut.”

“I don’t give that to you often enough, do I?” he said, regretfully. “But it’s not too late for a remedy, is it?” 

She shook her head. “Go on,” she urged, smiling a little. “Be nice to me, even if it hurts.” 

He gave her a look that would melt a glacier. “Your lips are perfect,” he said, his voice low and rumbling as he leaned in and pressed a swift kiss to her mouth. “And so are these.” He dropped his head down and lightly kissed the top of her breast above her bra. “I don’t see a flaw in you at all,” he said, pulling back to smile at her.

“Oh, I have them,” she confessed. “Sometimes I get so mad at you I think I’m going to explode.”

“That’s an entirely rational response to some of my behaviors,” he noted. “Not a flaw.”

She slowly rubbed her hand up and down his bicep. “And sometimes I think my…feelings for you are a pretty big flaw,” she said, softly.

“You might have me there, Molly,” he responded, crisply. “I can’t for the life of me think why you care for me at all. I’m not good enough for you, and that’s an objective fact.”

“No, it’s not!” she replied, with some heat. “Do you really think so little of yourself?”

“Only when I’m not thinking about how great I am,” he answered with a crooked smile. “Narcissistic sociopathy does have its downside, you know.”

She slid both arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her in a fierce hug, rubbing his back, holding him closely, wanting desperately to be able to push into him a sense of his own worth. “Oh, Sherlock,” she muttered. “If you’re a sociopath then I’m…Emmeline Pankhurst.”

“Florence Nightingale, I think,” he said. His head was buried in the crook of her neck, and he suddenly became aware of the richness of her smooth, warm skin, of the wonder of her nearly naked body in his arms, of the yearning way they seemed to fit together, and of the fathomless depths of her love for him. “Oh, Molly,” he whispered. He was undone; he began to nuzzle her neck, and his arm around her waist moved up her back where he easily unfastened her bra with one hand.

“Oh,” she breathed, surprised. He rolled her onto her back and pulled her bra off, freeing her breasts. His fingers began to play with one nipple, stroking it into a hard peak, and she instinctively arched into his hand, waves of pleasure rolling through her at his touch. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “You’re not too…tired?”

“I could make love to you every hour for the rest of my life,” he said, “even if I were dying of some horrible disease.” 

“So romantic,” she laughed.

He leaned down and kissed her deeply. She parted her lips to admit his exploring tongue, softening under his tender attention, her heart soaring, her juices blossoming. He trailed kisses along her collarbone whilst gently caressing her breasts, her hips, her thighs.

“Um,” she said, hesitantly, pushing on his shoulder, not sure how to broach the topic. “Do you…erm, know what to do?”

He pulled up and gave her a flat stare. “Seriously, Molly? You believe that bullshit about me?”

“Well, people say…things, and you…you never contradict them,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning.

“Why should I give any credence to that nonsense? People will think what they want to. Why should I care?” he grinned, his eyes glittering at her in the firelight. His hand slowly, deliberately, wandered down her body, over the swell of her belly and under the elastic band of her knickers. “You give me fifteen minutes and then let me know what you think about my…skill level,” he chuckled, his fingers exploring her dampening folds whilst his mouth claimed an exposed nipple, licking and biting it, sending pulses of desire straight to her core. He laved it with his tongue, sucking on the hardening peak whilst she wound her fingers into his hair and pressed against him, trembling with eager anticipation, her body quickly ripening into readiness.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, realizing she was about to experience the best fuck of her life.

He pulled her knickers off, pushed two long fingers deep into her wet core, scissoring them inside her, his thumb pressing on her clit, rubbing it whilst she moaned, her hips helplessly bucking against his hand, wanting him to fill her up completely.

And then there was no more thought; there was only the heavenly sensation of his hands on her, in her, stroking her into raw, mindless need, his greedy mouth laying claim to her skin, to her very soul as she writhed in pleasure under him. Feeling the satisfaction of his hardening cock straining along her thigh and his fingers deep inside her, her orgasm built, growing, swirling like sparks through the fibers of her being, filling her up with hot, inexpressible desire until she overflowed, came, shuddering with joy, yet still wanting more.

He immediately got onto his knees between her legs, spread her thighs farther apart, and positioned his hard, ready length at her entrance. She clutched him to her, wrapping her legs around his hips, urgently pushing at him, wanting to feel his thick cock inside of her at last. Driving into her, he bent down and captured her lips with his, plunging his tongue into her mouth, kissing her deeply as he began to thrust. She whimpered in pleasure, her moans growing louder, her entire existence focusing only on the feel of him inside her, stretching her, filling her up with his hard, aching need.

“Oh, Molly,” he murmured, “so sweet…so lovely…” He continued to thrust, stronger, faster, pumping into her as her knees came up, her hips arching against his, meeting his thrusts with her own. He wrapped his hands under her shoulders, giving him leverage to push even more deeply into her, hitting that tender spot inside her where desire and surrender meet.

“Fuck…fuck…oh fuck…” she panted, feeling another orgasm beginning to rise. He was nearly there, so she clenched herself around him, adding to the delicious, overwhelming friction that would soon take them both to completion. His thrusts grew erratic, her body tightened, and then they were coming, coming, falling down amidst showers of hot sparks, landing back in reality, onto the floor of their little shack, their limbs intertwined and their breasts heaving, trying to catch their breath.

He rolled off of her onto his back, pulling her onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she lay across him, smiling with satisfaction.

“Well?” he demanded. “How do I rate?” He gave her a wicked grin.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” she laughed, leaning up and kissing him. “Where did you learn to do it like that?”

“Many unexpected skills are required in the field of criminal investigation—“ he began.

“Stop lying, Sherlock,” she interrupted. “Never mind. I don’t care how you learned. I just appreciate that you know how to…please a woman. I’ve never come twice before,” she noted. “Most of the time, I don’t even come once,” she added, muttering. She stretched, yawned, and snuggled into him. “May I keep you?” she asked.

“You’ll have a hard time getting rid of me now,” he said, softly, looking at her, his eyes glowing. 

“Mmm,” she breathed, her eyes closing. “Good.” Moments later she was sound asleep. He slipped another log into the stove before laying back down, pulling the blankets tighter around them, quickly sinking into contented, sated, sleep beside her.

When she awoke a little gray light was filling the shack, indicating the sun — whilst not yet visible through the thinning snow — had risen. She felt stiff and sore, and realized she was curled up into a cold, tight ball on the wood floor. She noticed something was different. It took her a few moments to figure out that the difference was an absence of sound; the howling wind had died down and it felt warmer. Stretching out her cramped muscles, she looked over at Sherlock. He was sprawled across the entire mattress and had both of the blankets, having pushed her aside in his sleep.

“Hey,” she said, irritated. “Hey! Sherlock! Wake up! You’ve stolen the blankets. And the mattress.”

He woke up, yawned, and squinted at her with a bleary eye. “Christ, it’s the crack of dawn,” he complained. “What are you yelling about?”

“It’s 10 a.m., which is hardly the crack of dawn, and if you’re going to be a bed hog I may have to rethink this whole arrangement,” she said, grumpily, getting up and putting two logs into the stove. “I had a friend whose lover kept stealing the blankets,” she mused. “She finally nailed them to her side of the bed.”

“The lover?”

“No, the blankets,” she laughed. “Although that’s not a bad idea. I may have to polish up my handcuffs when we get home.” She took the poker, bent over, and stirred the fire around until the logs caught, unintentionally giving him an intimate view of her backside.

He sucked in a breath. “Fuck you for them,” he offered.

“What?” She turned around, her hands on her hips, looking at him in shock and surprise.

“You heard me,” he chuckled, observing her with a growing lust. “I’ll fuck you for them. Whoever comes first loses. Winner gets the mattress and one blanket, loser gets the other blanket.”

“You could just share them with me,” she suggested.

He shook his head and clutched them tighter. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he stated.

She thought for a minute, then nodded. “Okay,” she said, with a sly smile. “You’re on. But only if I get to go first.” 

“All right,” he agreed.

Slowly, she raised her arms over her head and stretched her body languidly, rolling her neck and arching her back, before reaching up and letting her hair down. She shook it free and began to comb it through with her fingers.

“Get over here,” he commanded, watching her intensely. He licked his lips.

“In a minute,” she said, smiling, still playing with her luxurious, long, dark hair. “When I feel like it.” She drew the gently curling mass of it over her shoulder and smoothed it against her breast, humming a little to herself as she groomed.

To his amazement, her body seemed to change in front of his eyes. Somehow, backlit by the flickering firelight from the stove and whatever bewitching thing she was doing, she grew rounder, fuller, softer. Her skin looked rosier and more golden, her stance more suggestive, her hair more silky, her eyes more seductive. He swallowed, feeling a rush of blood to his cock.

She began to inspect her arms, running her palms slowly over them, and then her breasts, hips, belly and thighs, rotating slightly, checking for scrapes and splinters. She turned around and cocked her hip, presenting her bum to him. “Do I have any splinters back there, Sherlock?” she asked, innocently, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Uh, I can’t see that far. Come over here and I’ll check,” he offered, making a grab for her. 

She laughed lightly, skipping out of his reach, and shook her head. She went over to the cupboard, and opened it, searching for another can of soup. “Are you hungry?” she asked, pouring the soup into the saucepan and setting it on the stove to heat up.

“Yes, I’m starving,” he replied. “For your sweet body. Dear god, Molly. Come here already.”

Humming again, she sauntered over and kneeled beside him. “What are the rules?” she asked, running her inquisitive fingers over his chest, along his ribs, across his stomach, and down the crease in his hip, heading straight for his cock, which had begun to stiffen.

“Anything goes,” he replied. He laid down on the mattress, rubbing his face with both hands. “Christ, I’m going to lose,” he growled. 

She laughed, bent over, took his hardening cock slowly into her mouth, and began to work him, lightly grazing his length with her teeth, using her tongue and hands to stimulate him. He grew harder under her touch, and she licked off a bit of precum before taking him fully into her mouth and down her throat. She moved him in and out for long minutes, setting up a slow, steady rhythm that was sure to drive him over the edge.

“Fuck!” he gasped, moaning, his hands in tight fists, his arm, chest, and abdominal muscles straining, trying to maintain control. He raised himself up a little, propping himself on his forearms, and watched her gleefully devouring his cock. “Christ, Molly, stop for a minute!” he pleaded.

“Do you surrender?” she asked, pausing for a moment.

He glared at her stubbornly, unwilling to give in. “Never. Do your worst.” He laid back down and started breathing deeply and evenly, fighting the overpowering urge to thrust into her mouth and be done with it.

She laughed again and bent her head to return to her task, fondling him, casually licking him, her hands around him, cupping, pulling, stroking, driving him to distraction. To his relief, she did stop a few minutes later, letting go of him, but it was only because she had something more diabolical in mind. 

She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, and slowly lowered herself onto his rigid cock, bracing herself with her hands flat on his abdomen. He groaned at the feeling of her surrounding him completely, her tight, wet cunt providing just the right amount of friction as she began to grind her hips against him.

“Oh, Christ,” he moaned at this new onslaught, his eyes closing, nearly resigned to his fate. He grabbed her hips with both hands, his fingers pressing into her flesh, trying to regulate her movement to his benefit.

But then he noticed an error in her plan - she wasn’t unaffected anymore. Once he filled her and she was riding him, the grinding and thrusting activated her pleasure center, sending mounting ripples of desire through her. She moaned, her head thrown back, her long hair cascading down her back, and suddenly, he knew exactly how to counterattack.

He splayed his hand across her belly and slipped his long thumb between them, locating her clit. He began to rub it firmly, with increasing speed and pressure, realizing he only had a limited time to accomplish his goal before he lost. It seemed to be working. She was panting now, her face flushed, luxuriating in the feel of him inside her and his distracting attentions to her clit, seemingly forgetting they were playing a game. He doubled his efforts, now using his fingertips to stimulate her, rubbing her harder and faster, trying to make her come before he did so himself. 

Her body began to tremble and clench around him, but then her eyes flew open. “Oh god, no, wait!” she cried, scrambling off of him. She was too slow. Sitting up, he quickly caught her by the waist and turned her so she was on her hands and knees on the mattress. He roughly entered her from behind, grabbing her hair to keep her from escaping, and using his thighs to spread her legs further apart. Slipping his hand between her legs, he found her clit and started rubbing it again whilst he drove into her. 

She groaned and whimpered, loving the hard, forceful sex, pushing back against his almost punishing thrusts, taking him as deep as he could go, trying to tame the rising orgasm that threatened to engulf her. He let go of her hair and used that hand to pinch and tug on her nipples, rolling them firmly between his thumb and forefinger, sending shockwaves of desire rippling through her body, causing her to cry out.

He could take it no longer. With a last few, strong strokes, he buried himself up to the hilt in her body, shaking and shuddering, before roaring out his release. Upon his completion, she let the overwhelming tide take her as well, her mind and body shattering into ever expanding, glorious waves of pleasure. She collapsed onto her prize, her cunt throbbing, losing consciousness, drifting away into soft, pillowy, darkening clouds.

A short time later, from what seemed like a great distance, she heard him calling her name, and the world slowly came into focus once more. She was lying across his lap, safe in his arms, covered with the blankets, his worried and distraught face hovering over her.

“Molly!” he sighed with relief. “Oh, thank god. I thought you were dead or something.”

“You fucked me into oblivion,” she said, in dreamy wonder. “I’ve never had that happen before. _Le petite mort_ , Sherlock, the little death. That was amazing,” she purred, smiling. 

“Christ, I thought I’d killed you!” he said, putting his hand over his heart and taking a deep breath. He stroked her hair. “Sorry, my love, that…got a little out of hand.”

“Wha…what did you just call me?”

Caught out in a sentimental endearment, two bright pink spots appeared on his cheeks. “I…I don’t remember,” he mumbled.

“Well, I remember,” she said, supremely satisfied, winding her arm around his neck and settling her cheek against his chest. 

His arms tightened around her. “It stopped snowing,” he said. “And the temperature is rising. We can leave here in a few hours, if you like.”

“How do you know it’s getting warmer?” she asked.

“There’s a thermometer on the window,” he replied. “Right there. I want to get you back to civilization as soon as possible, to a decent bed.” His eyes sparkled.

“Mmm,” she said. “Part of me wants to stay here with you forever. And part of me can’t wait to get out of this rat infested hell hole. You take me to the nicest places,” she teased.

“When we get back to London,” he said, “would you like to go to a luxury hotel with me? We can spend a few days together, to make up for this. How do you feel about the Savoy?”

“That sounds nice,” she agreed. “Although, in a weird way, I’m going to miss this place.”

“Well, if you’re that attached to it, we can always come back for our honeymoon,” he suggested, laughing.

“I’d rather go someplace tropical, where it never sno—,” she said. “Wait. What? You want to marry me?” Her heart flipped over.

“Molly, who else would I wed?” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “I always knew I’d end up with the devil.”

“Welcome to hell,” she smiled. “And get off my mattress.”


End file.
